


Writing's On the Wall

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:40:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It'd been months since they'd seen each other. Needless to say, their reunion is very eventful, even if they don't make it past the foyer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writing's On the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted to LJ November 8, 2010.

As soon as the front door opens, Alfred pulls Arthur inside and shoves him up against the wall. Arthur doesn’t really have time to react before Alfred is tilting his head to the side and kissing him, kicking haphazardly at the door. The door slams shut, and Arthur’s bags drop from his hands as he wraps his arms around Alfred’s neck and kisses him back rather enthusiastically. They carry on in this way, kissing each other quite soundly, until Alfred finally pulls away with a startled, shaking gasp for air. Arthur leans back against the wall, arms still around the back of Alfred’s neck, and raising one eyebrow.  
  
“Hello to you, too,” he says.   
  
Alfred grins, wide-eyed and shining. His visible happiness is so evident, it’s almost palpable. Arthur massages his fingers against the back of Alfred’s neck.   
  
“Missed you,” Alfred says as way of explanation, and in a rare moment of honesty without the usual dimwittedness that followed, still grinning and deliriously happy. “Hi.”   
  
Arthur does not smile, but he feels like he wants to. His expression softens, in any case, and he strokes his fingers over the hair on the back of Alfred’s neck with tender reassurance. He manages to mouth out another greeting, but the words die because Alfred’s pressed his mouth against Arthur’s and he’s kissing him again, and like hell Arthur’s going to complain about that.   
  
It’d been a couple of months since they’d seen each other last, and phone calls and emails could only last the two so long. Rather than have Alfred pick Arthur up at the airport, Arthur usually insisted Alfred stay at home and wait for Arthur to get there. It usually meant for a more unselfconscious welcome back, as making out in the middle of the airport was generally looked down upon.   
  
“I really hope this isn’t how you greet everyone,” Arthur even manages to joke as Alfred pulls back again, kissing at the corner of Arthur’s mouth once before pulling away, not managing to smother that brilliant grin of his, the kind that, under the right circumstances (now, for instance), could make Arthur feel like jelly.   
  
“Oh sure,” Alfred says, calmly, though the effect is ruined by his grin. “I just jump every guy that comes to my door.”   
  
“Hmmm,” Arthur hums, his fingers dragging through Alfred’s hair. “I think I’m jealous.”   
  
Alfred presses his forehead against Arthur’s, and Arthur closes his eyes. He still isn’t smiling, but he feels like it’ll happen soon. Alfred, meanwhile, is just a little too giddy to even notice, kissing softly at Arthur’s mouth, reacquainting himself with the touch and feel of Arthur, after two months’ separation. They had their work as nations to take care of, meetings and alliances and domestic conflicts that meant they sometimes could go months without crossing paths. Even if months were nothing, in the grand scheme of things, for nations—it was still very nice to find time for one another again. They kiss for a long moment, Alfred’s hands cupping Arthur’s hipbones in the way he always does, and the certain stability that gives him is very comforting, after two months. It’s good that little things like that don’t change, the way his large, bear-like hands can cover his hips so easily, the way his thumbs swipe affectionately against the line of his body, even if there are several layers of clothing blocking the callused thumbprints from touching soft flesh. Alfred’s mouth slides over Arthur’s, and away, kissing along his jaw and over his ear.   
  
And then Alfred is laughing in Arthur’s ear, and Arthur’s eyelids flutter just because the sound is so much more satisfying when heard in real time, not over the phone, not read in badly written emails as _lol_ and _lmao_. “Your ears are all pink,” Alfred is whispering in Arthur’s ear. “And cold. Is it cold outside?”  
  
“Freezing,” Arthur agrees, opening his eyes and staring down at Alfred’s neck, craned so that the other man can keep kissing at the shell of his ear, his warm breath quickly warming up the chilled skin. He leans forward, placing a sloppy kiss against Alfred’s jaw. “I missed you, too,” he finally relents, and feeling awkward admitting it despite being in such an intimate embrace with Alfred in the first place, and can feel the smile against his neck widen as Alfred continues to kiss him there. “I must be a masochist.”   
  
“Jerk,” is all Alfred says, pulling back only so he can pull Arthur to him again by his tie. This means the hands have regretfully left his hips, but that’s okay because one is fisted in Arthur’s tie and drawing him close, and the other is cupping his cheek rather sweetly, tilting Arthur’s face back so he can kiss him, and deepen that kiss.   
  
Arthur opens to Alfred as their mouths pillow and plump together. Arthur traces Alfred’s mouth, explores the walls and the rows of white teeth. He touches Alfred’s tongue, feels Alfred respond and grip him tightly, all the while loosening his tie. His nimble fingers brush against his neck as he pulls at the knot of his tie, and Arthur breathes out an almost-sigh against Alfred’s mouth. Arthur’s hands can’t settle, won’t settle—he grips at Alfred’s shirt, tugs him closer, slips away to knead at the back of his neck, roll down his back and follow the bumps of his spine. He tries, even, to grasp at Alfred’s hips, but his hands don’t fit so easily over Alfred’s hips as Alfred’s hands can fit over Arthur—everywhere, any part of Arthur. He grips at the collar of Alfred’s silly shirt, brushes his fingers under it to breeze across his lean shoulders, feel the slope of his golden skin for the first time in weeks and it feels so _nice_ that he really can’t imagine any reason to leave the front foyer, so long as Alfred is standing there.   
  
He scrapes at Alfred’s lower lip, and Alfred lets out a stuttering gasp before deepening the kiss, taking back the territory that Alfred invaded and exploring the contours of Arthur’s own mouth. Arthur does not protest—he welcomes it. Arthur bites at his mouth until Alfred opens to him, breathes against him and into him, and Arthur melts against him, his fingers searching, never staying still for long. Alfred’s breath is short, and he just manages to bite back a moan. His touch is so warm. He’s missed him so much.  
  
They fit together so well—it’s almost painful. Separation from him is painful, and finding his way back to him—to Alfred—makes it all okay again. All the stresses, all the work waiting on the backburner—they all fall away and it is just _Alfred._ Always only Alfred.  
  
Arthur arches against Alfred’s touch, as fingers manage to pull the tie away and it falls down innocently onto one of Arthur’s bags. Arthur arches, pulls at Alfred so that their chests press together, and Alfred’s hands press against Arthur’s chest, trapped. Arthur drags, and Alfred responds, trying to weasel his hands back so he can keep touching at Arthur’s face, thread into his hair, draw him just as close—closer, somehow always closer.   
  
Alfred’s fingers are still wedged, and Arthur’s not about to pull away. So Alfred’s hands squirm, work at the buttons of Arthur’s very practical dress-shirt (though Arthur suspects that if his mouth was free, Alfred would make some kind of comment about _prissy, over-dressed Brits_ ). Something heaves in Arthur’s chest—god, how he has missed this boy, this beautiful, wonderful, lovely boy—and he swallows a responding deep noise that bubbles from Alfred’s throat. Words stifle on Arthur’s tongue, but now is not the time to speak anyway, so he strokes the pads of his fingers at Alfred’s neck, follows the lines of his body, slips over his shoulders, kneads at the skin there, fisting into his shirt and wishing he could wrench it off without having to break the kiss.   
  
Finally, though, Alfred has to pull away, and he gasps for air. His eyes are glazed, his face flushed. And Arthur thinks that no, he will never grow tired of this boy, of that smiling face (not until tomorrow, when he’s greeted with morning breath and thick coffee on the air; not until the next afternoon when Alfred teases Arthur to the point where Arthur wants to kill him). He lifts a hand again, strokes at the line of his jaw, thumbs over his cheekbone, pads his fingers over the kiss-swollen lips.  
  
“Hello, my lovely,” Arthur says again, because it seems like the only appropriate thing to say.  
  
Alfred’s face breaks into another smile, and he just beams at Arthur. And if there was ever a time that Arthur would be blinded by the lad’s face, it would be now. He even, finally, manages a small smile back, stroking his hands over his face, pushing the hair from his face, adjusting the glasses that’d been knocked slightly askew by their enthusiasm.   
  
“Hey, Arthur,” Alfred returns, and his words are breathless, much softer than he’d probably intended—and it is in that still moment when the words fall away that Arthur understands, fully, just how much they’d missed each other.   
  
So he slips his hand down off his face, over his neck, and down his chest, slow, raking down his body and wishing that pesky shirt was gone so he could touch Alfred’s firm, perfectly golden skin. He tugs at the corner of his shirt once he reaches Alfred’s belt, slides his hand over his hipbone, along the slope of his body, letting his fingernails drag a small circle around Alfred’s navel. He watches Alfred close his eyes, keeps his eyes on Alfred’s face as Alfred bites his perfectly swollen mouth, tries to suppress a shiver and a moan.  
  
“God,” Alfred gasps out before he silences himself, and he ducks his head, the blush creeping up his neck and still biting at his lip. Arthur’s eyes sink to half-mast and he takes one step closer, sliding his thigh between Alfred’s legs and hitching up, feeling just how much Alfred had missed him.   
  
Alfred’s hands fall, and one grasps at the hitched leg between his thighs, grasping at Arthur’s own thigh. He pulls it out from between his legs and steps closer so that their bodies align, and he shifts Arthur’s leg to hook around his hip, and Arthur can feel that lovely hipbone of his pressing against his inner thigh before he hooks his leg completely around Alfred’s waist and draws him close so that they are perfectly aligned in every way. The way Alfred’s eyelids flutter, for just a moment, means he can feel it, too.  
  
“So, what, are we going to fuck in the hallway?” Alfred finally manages to get out before his breath hitches again, since Arthur is rubbing at him in a way that is not innocent or proper but fuck if Arthur cares.   
  
“Brilliant deduction, darling,” Arthur drawls, his own voice shaky and much more affected than he’d anticipated.   
  
“Jerk,” Alfred says again, without much venom, his hands resuming to the earlier task of unhooking each of Arthur’s buttons. “Prissy, over-dressed Brits…”  
  
Ah, there it was. Arthur hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Alfred’s quips until he was actually saying them again. He rolls his eyes, regardless, mostly for show, because he can’t look too haughty when he so desperately wants Alfred and he’s right there, after weeks of not seeing him at all.   
  
“At least I don’t dress a slob.”  
  
“S’not like I need to impress you too much,” Alfred says with a booming laugh, his glasses slipping down his nose as he grins his lopsided, darling grin. Arthur really is hopeless when it comes to Alfred, regardless of how much he’ll insult his stupid, lovely face.   
  
“Is that so?”  
  
“Naw, I don’t need to put on the charm for someone I’ve already got, right?” Alfred says, all grinning and pleased as punch with himself. He’s finished undoing the last of Arthur’s buttons and pulling the shirt, along with Arthur’s jacket, off of Arthur’s shoulders.   
  
“You aren’t?” Arthur drawls. “Why do I even put up with you, then?”   
  
“Cause I’m hot.”  
  
True as that is, Arthur isn’t prepared to concede to Alfred’s ridiculous levels of attractiveness. “You,” he says instead, reaching behind Alfred so that he could untie at the shoe currently pressed into Alfred’s back, “are remarkably, overpoweringly conceited. It’s astonishing.”   
  
Alfred laughs.  
  
Arthur manages to pull his shoe off and lets it fall down beside his bag. He pulls at the sock as well, and almost shivers as the cool night air in the house touches at his feet once the safety of wool socks is gone. He tilted his head to stare down at his other foot, still sock and shoed, before looking back up at Alfred.  
  
“Hold me,” Arthur instructs, then hitches his other leg up so that both are wrapped around Alfred’s waist. Alfred catches him in time, holding onto Arthur’s backside with a wider grin than before, cradling Arthur between Alfred and the wall as Arthur fiddles with his other shoe. “Oof, not so hard against the wall.” Alfred leans away just slightly so Arthur isn’t pressed as hard against the wall as previously, but his hold stays just as protectively firm. Arthur wrenches the shoe and its sock off and let them fall as well. He lifts his arms and wraps them around Alfred’s neck again. “I’ll never understand how you got to be so ridiculously strong.”  
  
“Have you seen my arms?” Alfred counters, and Arthur slants his eyes to his arms. Though covered by the shirt, he can still see the way the muscles are tensed as he holds up Arthur.   
  
Arthur raises his eyebrows for just a moment before letting them fall, aiming for condescension but ending up being a bit more appreciative as he slid his hands over the curves of Alfred’s biceps.   
  
“Quite,” he says.   
  
“See? Hot and strong,” Alfred says, grinning. “I’m a catch.”   
  
“I repeat my earlier ‘conceited’ statement,” Arthur says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s remarkable to me that you haven’t found a way to just have sex with your reflection every night instead.”   
  
“I’d be lucky to have me,” Alfred says with a rare moment of solemnity that’s quickly destroyed when he laughs and kisses at Arthur’s chin. “Too bad you’re here to ruin that perfect romance, Arthur. You’re just too nice to look at.”  
  
Arthur feels the blush in his cheeks and he huffs.   
  
Alfred leans in close again, kissing at Arthur’s mouth. Arthur opens to him, but Alfred doesn’t move to deepen the kiss. He still holds onto Arthur, and Arthur has no intention of unwrapping and unfolding himself from around Alfred’s body, but he fears that Alfred has already noticed the blush on his face.   
  
Alfred’s next statement proves he has seen it. Because Alfred pulls away from the kiss, close enough that their lips brush, and Alfred’s ridiculously blue eyes stare at Arthur as he practically _purrs,_ “Hey, beautiful.”   
  
Then he leans up and kisses Arthur and the nose and it takes all Arthur’s restraint not to punch him or stutter out something incoherent. It’s all well and good to tease Alfred, to have Alfred to himself, but he still has no idea what to do with compliments or that kind of affection. He can appreciate Alfred’s body and beauty until the minutes shave off from hours, but it still takes getting used to—to know that someone finds him attractive in turn. Especially someone like Alfred.  
  
So Arthur just wrinkles his nose, trying to resist the urge to melt against Alfred while wishing he could curse his name—damn sappy, damn fucking perfect boy (perfect only tonight; tomorrow he’ll be obnoxious and arrogant and loud all over again)—and just scowls at the wall.   
  
“Shut up,” he manages to mutter, but Alfred is laughing and Arthur can feel the laughter rumbling in the lad’s chest and it made Arthur’s chest ache. Alfred is too busy smiling, running one hand down Arthur’s chest with such reverence that Arthur thinks he really is going to melt against him. Especially when Alfred thumbs at the old Blitz scars and Arthur closes his eyes. “Idiot,” he breathes. “Damn lovely idiot.”   
  
Alfred laughs. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”   
  
Arthur opens his eyes just so he can locate Alfred’s mouth, then captures it, biting at the lower lip and _demanding_ physical attention—if only to get away from the emotional vulnerability he fears he’s about to stumble into.  
  
“Oh, fuck me,” he mumbles to himself against Alfred’s mouth.  
  
Alfred bites back, and whispers with just a small little laugh, one that sounds almost nervous—as if they’d never done this before, as if they hadn’t thought about it since the night they had to leave each other—“That’s the plan, isn’t it?”   
  
Arthur just tightens his hold on Alfred, squeezing his waist between his legs and writhing. That’s his answer, and Alfred isn’t about to question it. They kiss again—sloppy, frenzied, but them. Theirs. Only Alfred, that’s all—  
  
Arthur moans quietly against his mouth as Alfred rolls his hips in just the right way, pushes themselves together until the space between them is just the space where they can draw air into their dying lungs. Arthur’s heart thunders, but he can’t pull away—doesn’t want to breathe, if it means not kissing Alfred. God, how he has missed him.  
  
Arthur realizes that he’ll eventually have to get off of Alfred, if either of them are to get the rest of their clothes off. But that means arching away from Alfred, and that’s the last thing he wants. He strokes his fingers over his body, tugs at his shirt, arches up to slide his fingers over his neck and snare in his hair. Alfred just keeps kissing him, rocking against his hips as if he is already inside Arthur, and Arthur has no idea how long either of them will last—it’s been so long, too long—  
  
They bend together and get tangled up in each other, Alfred with his shirt halfway off, biting back a whimpering noise that Arthur doesn’t quite hear because he’s too distracted by the way their lips and tongues slide together, how the space between them disappears more and more and Arthur’s fingers are twisting in Alfred’s hair, and Alfred is still thrusting against him and making those soft moans. Arthur can’t stop rocking in time to Alfred’s movements, meeting his thrusts, rolling his hips against Alfred’s. He grips at Alfred, feels his lungs scream for air. He can’t stop. He won’t stop.   
  
Arthur is chewing on Alfred’s lip, smoothes his tongue over the soft skin, arches against Alfred and rolls his hips in a way that makes Alfred gasp helplessly against him, and thrust hard enough that Arthur almost slams his head against the wall.   
  
He needs him naked. Now.  
  
“Let me down,” Arthur moans against Alfred’s mouth and Alfred nods once, listens to his command, stops gripping at him so that Alfred touches down again, cold feet on the cold, wooden floor.  
  
At once Arthur fists the shirt and throws it off the rest of the way, his hands grinding down Alfred’s chest. Alfred tips his head back, closing his eyes, his mouth falling open in a silent plea. And it’s just a simple touch—it’s nothing, it’s everything—  
  
Alfred is strained against his jeans, Arthur can see the bulge. He presses his palm against the denim, listens to the rattling gasp that pushes past Alfred’s throat. Alfred jerks his hips up against Arthur’s hand, and Arthur just smoothes his hand gently over him, keeping his touch light. Alfred practically sobs. His hands slide back up over the lines of his muscles—such a golden, muscular body. Open to him. His.   
  
Arthur kneels, and the choking noise Alfred makes is so satisfying. He pulls at Alfred’s belt buckle, urging the younger nation closer and Alfred comes to him with no qualms, his eyes wide, his face pink and shining and perfect. So fucking perfect. He pulls at the belt, unhooks it. His fingers are shaking, he realizes absently, as he pulls at the snap and zip of Alfred’s jeans.   
  
Rocket ship boxers. Alfred’s favorite.   
  
Arthur thumbs at the button keeping the flap of the boxers closed, then reaches inside, finally touching the stiff, pulsing heat of Alfred’s cock. Alfred quakes, leans forward so his hands and forehead are resting against the wall, and he mouths out words with his eyes clenched shut, though Arthur can’t hear anything. He suspects there are no words, anyway, just breathless exhalations.   
  
Arthur drags his fingers over the cock, from root to tip, and Alfred moans, loudly, his hips jerking forward. Arthur looks up at the face above him, but Alfred’s eyes are clenched and his mouth is flopped open. Arthur draws the cock out from the boxers, watches the way the (overly baggy) jeans slip down Alfred’s lovely hipbones just slightly, exposing more of the rocket ships to Arthur’s gaze.   
  
Alfred, truly, is happy to see him. Arthur thumbs at the head of the cock, dusty with blood flow, rigid in his hand. He drags his palm over the length of his cock, sweeps his fingers lightly over the sensitive skin, cups at his balls for a moment before slipping back up to the cockhead.   
  
“Fuck,” Alfred whispers, managing to sound it out in four broken syllables. “F-u-u-uck. Arthurrrrr…”   
  
Arthur smiles, despite himself, leans forward and drags his lips over the cockhead, barely a touch—just a pillowing of lips against heated skin. Alfred practically sobs again. Arthur licks at the length of his cock, then kisses at the line of hair leading upward to his belly button. He kisses, his eyes flickering up to try and catch sight of Alfred’s changing expressions. Arthur leans in close, presses his cheek to Alfred’s hip, kisses at the soft tract of skin, tastes Alfred. He kisses at Alfred’s hip before sliding back to his cock, his fingers curled in the waistband of rocket ships. He kisses, darting out his tongue occasionally and narrowly dodging an unfortunate poke to the eye every time Alfred went to thrust his hips, involuntarily.   
  
Alfred’s words have dissolved to variants of “fuck,” and “fuck yes, Arthurrrr,” and some incoherent word jumbles that are most likely gibberish. Alfred moans, whispers out Arthur’s name. He tries to keep himself from jerking his hips. He writhes. His legs are trembling, and he spreads them further as Arthur continues to lavish attention on his rigid cock.   
  
One hand falls from the wall, curls into Arthur’s hair. Arthur smiles around the kisses he lies across the cockhead. He finally, finally, draws the cockhead into his mouth, swirling his tongue over it. Alfred keens quietly, his body quaking. But as satisfying as that small touch is, so quickly does Arthur pull away, kissing at his navel again.  
  
“Fucking— _ah_ —tease,” Alfred says somewhere above Arthur’s head.  
  
“I can be much worse,” Arthur warns, though his words are warm. “You don’t seem as if you’ll last long, darling.”   
  
“It’s been fucking two months—shit,” Alfred cries out, and jerks his hips. “Arthur—wait. I want to be in you or—or you in me. Or something. Please… it’s been too long, ah—”  
  
Arthur hums quietly and gives Alfred’s cock one last lick before he slowly pulls himself to his feet, dragging Alfred down to kiss him. His mouth is just as warm, smoldering. He leaves kisses against his mouth, touches at the inside of Alfred’s mouth, traces every contour and moment, everything—he knows every moment of this lad.   
  
He pulls away though, takes the hand from his hair and drags Alfred’s fingers to his mouth, swirling his tongue over the digits, his eyes hooded as he stares up at Alfred. Alfred moans, his mouth open, panting—so pink, so lovely.   
  
“O-oh,” Alfred gasps out and even when he’s in the middle of being so demonically gorgeous and hot, he’s still so stupidly _adorable_ that Arthur is torn between cooing and purring or demanding things from him. He’s flushed. He’s strained—he’s only for Arthur. “You sure you don’t wanna sit down or lie down or—”  
  
“I have been sitting all day on that plane waiting to just fucking get here,” Arthur moans, “Fuck me standing. Now.”   
  
“Oh,” Alfred says quietly, again, and then he grins—thrilled. Always so thrilled. Always so charming and lovely.   
  
“Fuck me,” Arthur commands, lifts one leg to draw Alfred close again—a promise. “Come along, lad.”   
  
“I guess the key word being ‘come’ right? Ha ha.” He’s laughing—nervous, twittering. He has no reason to be—they’ve done this before. It’s been so long, though—  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes. “That’s the idea.”   
  
“Christ,” Alfred chokes, clenches his hands in Arthur’s hair and kisses at him again, trembling. “God, I’ve missed you.”   
  
“Jesus, God, and the Holy Ghost,” Arthur agrees, sardonically, never one to let good irony escape his grasp, even in situations like this, and thrusts his hips up against Alfred’s, his cock still standing freely out of the rocket ship boxers.   
  
Alfred moans quietly, and the hoarse, rattling sound echoes straight to Arthur’s core and for all his jokes in the past about Alfred’s endurance in this area, Arthur is pretty sure he’s about ready to climax without ever getting the chance to unbuckle his pants.  
  
“Please tell me you have lube,” he whispers.   
  
Alfred bends his head, kissing at an old scar across Arthur’s collarbone, sloppy and misguided and distracted by the way Arthur’s hand has fallen down to stroke at Alfred’s cock.   
  
“Y-yeah,” he whispers. “Upstairs.”   
  
Arthur tries to speak, but nothing comes to him—not even air. He’s suffocating, surrounded by Alfred and just wanting Alfred _in_ him. He drags his eyes over Alfred’s body, appreciatively.  
  
“Go get it,” Arthur commands, his voice husky with lust and sounding like darkened sandpaper. “And _fuck me already._ ”   
  
Alfred is nodding eagerly, and almost stumbles when he takes a step back. And he’s still grinning.   
  
“I’ll be back,” he says, in that horribly impersonation of The Terminator that he _knows_ Arthur hates.   
  
If Arthur wasn’t so horny, he’d kick Alfred away and just walk right out of the foyer. He knows, deep down, that even if he wasn’t aroused he wouldn’t do that. “That joke is not nearly as cute as you think it is.”   
  
“ _You’re_ not as cute as you think you are,” Alfred counters and Arthur wants to kill him for being campy and childish when he should be fucking Arthur into the wall.   
  
“I don’t think I’m cute,” Arthur says calmly, gritting his teeth.   
  
Alfred makes a face, his brow furrowing. “Okay, fine. You are slightly cuter than you think you are, then—but my point still stands.”  
  
“And what is your point?”  
  
“Uh.”  
  
“Indeed, darling. Go on, go get the lube.” He slaps Alfred’s backside to usher him along. Then he adds, drly, “I’ll just be here, pining for you endlessly.”   
  
“Don’t pine too much or else you’ll turn into a tree,” Alfred grins as he speaks.   
  
Arthur groans. Fucking puns. Alfred is laughing, a stuttering little laugh at first—fuck, it doesn’t matter how many times they do this, Alfred is always nervous (as if Arthur would leave him, as if Arthur could possibly think him inexperienced or unsatisfying, as if Arthur could love anyone but Alfred) and it always fucking shows, it’s always so _obvious_ in every arch of his smiles, tension of his muscles—  
  
“Though,” Alfred continues. “I guess you’ve got enough wood to—”  
  
He really is going to kill him.   
  
“Would you go get the lube already!” Arthur shouts, and _does_ kick at Alfred this time.   
  
Alfred laughs, and runs, very quickly, up the stairs to his room, where the lube is undoubtedly stashed in the bedside table. With him gone, Arthur feels far too warm and far too cold at once, feels as if he’s so empty and alone, even though he knows Alfred is right there. He’s spent so much time alone in the past, and they’ve been gone from each other for longer than two months in the past—  
  
But it is still nice, to know that he’s nearby, to know that they won’t have to leave one another for a little while yet.   
  
Shortly, though, Alfred returns. Arthur can hear him coming before he does appear, the thumping of his overly eager footfalls as he bounds down hallways to get back to Arthur, waiting for him in the foyer—and Arthur hates to realize that he really is _pining_ and it’s been only a blink of an eye since he left to get the lube in the first place. He really is hopeless. He really is hopelessly in love with that boy—  
  
“Here I am!” Alfred announces, though it isn’t necessary. Arthur would know Alfred is near him no matter what.  
  
“Come here,” Arthur commands, unhooking his belt and letting his trousers and underwear fall to the ground, kicking them off irritably. “Or are you going to pun me to orgasm?”   
  
Alfred smiles—though he’s still panting and his mouth is bruised and swollen from Arthur’s kisses and bites. He comes to Arthur, slides his hands up the corded muscles of his thighs, over his hips, over the sides of his chest, tracing scars. He kisses at Arthur’s neck, one hand curling around Arthur’s cock and tugging. Arthur lets out a quiet cry that could have been Alfred’s name.   
  
“I’m not going to last long,” Alfred whispers, as a disclaimer or perhaps as apology.   
  
“I want you so desperately,” Arthur confesses before he can stop himself, but does not regret saying it—he won’t last long either, he can feel it. He smiles at Alfred, draws him closer. “Fuck me, my lovely.”   
  
Alfred closes his eyes and moans, popping the cap of the lubricant, squeezing until there is a reasonable amount in his hand. Arthur just wants him to touch him. Arthur lets his hands fall, resting against Alfred, at any skin that won’t make him gasp out too loudly. He hitches one leg up, resting it against Alfred’s hip so that he’ll have easier access.   
  
Alfred slides up to him, nudges his fingers into the cleft of his ass, searching out that ring of muscles. His touch both burns and freezes Arthur—the lube is still cold, but having Alfred touch him is so burning—his vision blurs. He whispers out Alfred’s name, almost broken. Fingers prod and push up into him.   
  
Arthur mouths something, something like _oh my god_ but there’s no sound as Alfred’s fingers hook into him, and stretch. Arthur seizes and tenses around Alfred’s fingers, but he quickly relaxes, letting his head loll against the wall as he moans. He raises one hand, cups at Alfred’s cheek so that Alfred’s eyes will meet his—and they are so impossibly blue, they say everything that Alfred does not say, everything that Arthur knows he wishes to say. A thousand things Alfred never says.   
  
The sound traps in Arthur’s throat—three words, three words he hasn’t said since the last time they were together. He stares into Alfred’s wild eyes, stares into that forever beautifully blue—and loses his train of thought as Alfred’s fingers stretch him, bear him until he’s open and waiting and panting out Alfred’s name in something that is too dignified to be a beg, but is very nearly that. Arthur’s eyes have to drag away: he stares at the ceiling, stares down at where Alfred’s hand disappears under him, stares at the way Alfred’s cock pressed thickly out of his boxers. He gasps, rattling, echoing, when Alfred’s fingers find his prostate, stroke at the gland until he’s nearly a mess of begging and Alfred’s name. The shout of pleasure cracks through his throat, shatters through heaves and pants, and Alfred’s own tiny moan of Arthur’s name.   
  
Alfred hooks one arm under Arthur’s leg, elbow to knee, and holds Arthur up as he takes another step forward, slips his hand out of Arthur, smears the remaining lubricant over his cock, before Arthur can feel the cock pressing up against his backside.   
  
Alfred slides into Arthur, and finally, finally Arthur feels like he’s finally made it home, and he lets out a shuddering sigh. His eyelashes flicker, and he stares up into Alfred’s face, and Alfred is staring back at him, his mouth open as if he cannot believe how much time has passed, how close they are now—  
  
“Arthur,” he whispers, and then slams his hips up, sliding into Arthur completely.  
  
“Yes,” Arthur moans out, shivers, and fucks himself on Alfred’s cock, drawing him in and out and losing all ability to speak, all coherency. His words, if what he’s whispering out in quiet moans can be considered words, are nothing but slurs. “Y-… yes, _Alfred._ Beautiful, lovely Alfred.”  
  
Alfred ducks his head, his face bright red, and kisses and bites at Arthur’s neck, slamming his hips up against Arthur, his cock sliding in and out of Arthur’s body easily, striking every few thrusts against Arthur’s prostate so that Arthur cries out in shuddering gasps. Arthur rocks to meet Alfred’s uneven thrusts, feels his body wavering and going weak—he’s so tired, but he’s missed Alfred so. Alfred, his Alfred—only Alfred.   
  
Alfred thrusts up into him, quick and hard, shuddering his entire body up against Arthur. It’s all Arthur can do not to just cry out, but his body is so close—he won’t last long. And the frenzied way Alfred pushed against him meant that he, too, is close. Arthur bites down at Alfred’s mouth once it comes back to kiss him, chews on his lower lip until Alfred gasps into his mouth and Arthur’s tongue is sweeping in, swallowing all of Alfred’s moans and knowing that Alfred was doing the same for him. Eventually, Alfred finds the steady pace, the steady angle, to strike at Arthur’s prostate mercilessly and Arthur would forever deny that he was _whimpering_ against Alfred’s mouth.   
  
Arthur moans. Alfred responds. Their moans and gasps are ragged, desperate, echoing in the otherwise silent house. Alfred rocks against Arthur, and Arthur leans up against the wall, draws Alfred closer, continues to shift his body over Alfred’s cock so that they are fucking each other.   
  
“I’m—” Alfred begins, words stumbling into Arthur’s mouth.  
  
“In me,” Arthur commands, knowing what the fumbling words are meant to be, recognizing them for an embarrassed warning.  
  
Alfred nods, draws back with a shuttering gasp, and a quiet _yessss, Arthur_ —his words are hoarse, dry, perfect.  
  
The edges of Arthur’s vision are blurring, and he thrusts one more time up against Alfred. Alfred gasps out, ducks his head, and does a full body shudder. The next moment, Arthur can feel the warmth filling him and he closes his eyes, writhing. He twines his fingers into Alfred’s hair, holding him close. Alfred ducks his head and kisses at Arthur’s neck and collarbone, his hips jerking as he spills his seed inside of Arthur.   
  
His breathing comes out in short pants, and when he finishes, he lifts his head, staring up at Arthur. Arthur whispers his name, and Alfred nods, one hand ducking down to wrap around Arthur’s cock, jerking him off until Arthur comes with a shattering cry—he’d been so close. His leg tightens around Alfred’s arm, and he shudders. He feels Alfred, limp now, slip out of Arthur, but feels that warmth staying behind, filling him.   
  
When he comes, too, ribbons of cum across his stomach, he slumps against Alfred—finally feeling just how exhausted he truly is. Alfred kisses at his jaw, and Arthur’s eyelids flutter. He moans quietly, waits until his body ceases its shudders and involuntary jerks—pleasure, all he feels is pleasure.  
  
He tips his head back and kisses at Alfred, who kisses him back, the smile palpable between their mouths.   
  
They stay like that in silence for a long moment, letting the world resume its regular pace. They wait until their breathing returns to normal.  
  
“So,” Alfred says, after a moment, perking up, one hand swiping over the seed on Arthur’s stomach, pressing one thumb absently to his lips—and Arthur damns his stamina to hell. He’ll have to wait for such a sight to plump his cock up again. Alfred asks, “Shower?”   
  
“My bags,” Arthur says, not quite weakly, but with enough semblance of propriety Arthur deems as necessary, considering their situation.  
  
Alfred rolls his eyes, and picks Arthur up properly so that Arthur has no choice but to wrap both his legs around Alfred’s waist again. “I’ll get ‘em for you later.”  
  
“Hrm,” Arthur says, feeling exhausted despite the temptation taking a shower with Alfred presents. He rests his cheek against Alfred’s shoulder, kisses at his neck. “You’re incorrigible.”   
  
Alfred laughs, and Arthur tightens his hold on him. This is shaping up to be a very pleasant visit.


End file.
